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"They bought it." Lotor lets out a relieved sigh, slumping as he steps into Throk's arms. He's cold. "Even Narti and Axca."
"It's over. For now, at least." Throk sighs and nuzzles Lotor's hair, mussed up already by his helmet. "My Emperor."
"They all support me now, thanks to you. It was well-played." Lotor reaches up to stroke Throk's cheek. It is soft under his fingers, the touch giving him a kind of comfort that he has longed for for days. Throk's warmth seeps into his icy fingers. "If only my father would die already. Sending you here was the only viable option; they all believe you fought me to get the throne. He is not going to like it. You'll be safe here. If he survives, he'll like the idea of you being stuck in the ice."
"There are those who support me, those who are against my—" Throk laughs softly. "My deportation. They do not know, of course, that it comes with certain benefits. I will send word to them. The witch Haggar is to blame, I will say. The druids are to blame. I will turn them against her, to you. I will tell them you came here to see to my comfort yourself and they will see that you have honor, understand that you will lead us well."
"I like it when you are making cunning plans. Be careful you do not get in over your head." Lotor knows Throk's ambition. He also knows that the only thing that holds Throk back from taking the empire is that he has to take him down as well and Lotor is firmly against that. Although he is very much for being taken. It has been too long and Lotor needs. It's not so much the fucking, although that is good too. It's what comes with it: the odd tenderness, the way he is able to sleep after, unafraid that his enemies will catch him unawares. The sense of belonging. When they are together, Lotor belongs to Throk with all his heart.
"I will not. I know my duty to my emperor," Throk says, his sharp teeth bared in a smile that should be deeply disconcerting, but isn't. "And I know I missed you." His eyes turn soft, warm. "We will be safe here for a while."
Lotor knows they will. The small outpost is manned with little Galra personnel and a handful of sentries. "Did you load the hack into the system?"
"Of course. The droids will not report your presence, nor will they recognize you for who you are. I was very careful." Throk lets his fingers slide through Lotor's hair, gently, the touch belying his sharp, cruel appearance. "I would die for you, Lotor. I would rather it did not come to that, but without you—" Throk sighs.
"I would lie if I said the same." Lotor turns his face into Throk's chest. "I would live so I could seek vengeance on those who killed you." It's partly true. It's more that Lotor is so used to never have anything of his own, nothing precious, not without having it taken from him at some point. Sometimes given back, but not always. Throk is precious, loyal. To him, not to Zarkon. Lotor has his spies as well, although he isn't in the habit of falling in love with them.
"But no one will kill me." Throk shivers. "Apart from the snow and ice, maybe. Everybody knows that I am buried alive out here. I am worthless to anyone seeking power over you. Ulippa is not a friendly place and your enemies think I am not your friend."
Throk pauses, shivering. Ulippa truly is unfriendly. "Are you cold, beloved?"
Lotor is. He feels frozen inside, the fight to take over the throne from his father taking a toll on him. He raises his head, looking out the window of the small base. There is little but snow, a storm raging, mile after mile of glacier, no reprieve from it anywhere. He buries his fingers in Throk's soft fur. "I am weary, Throk. Tired."
"Come to my bedchamber." Throk brushes his knuckles over Lotor's skin, light as the touch of snowflakes, but warm. "It is not much, but it's mine. Ours."
Too used to sleeping alone, abandoned, without the comfort of a lover, Lotor nods. They have rarely had the luxury of a whole night together, always careful not to raise suspicion. Being here now, free to sleep, to make love, to stay in bed… it is almost too much, like the constant vigilance is ingrained in Lotor's body, keeping him restless as quicksilver. He sends the storm outside another glance, shivers and gives in. "Yes."
Throk's private chambers are small, a part of the oldest buildings of the base. But the bed is large and warm, there is a quintessence-powered fire heating up the room, and Lotor makes a low purr as he leaves his uniform on the floor, too used to close quarters and shared facilities to care for any modesty. Throk looks at him without desire, even though Lotor knows that they both desire one another. It is not what it is about between them. Sex is easy to come by; what they have together is not. Lotor does not have words for it; it is nothing that the Galra appreciate. It's soft and gentle. Sometimes heated and wild, but mostly soft.
Lotor showers in the minimal bathroom, washing off the grime of the long trip. Being at the outskirts of the universe has it advantages as well as the opposite. When he gets back, Throk has found him a nightshirt, a necessity in this hostile environment. There is a cup of something that smells like soup on the nightstand. Outside, the storm howls at them, clawing at the windows, its emaciated fingers reaching for them. Lotor shudders.
Throk pulls back the covers. They are white and heavy, the pelt of some animal, Lotor thinks. The bed looks like a nest, lined with all the warm materials that Throk has been able to scrape together. In that sense, it is luxurious. Leaning against a pile of soft pillows, Lotor slides under the heavy layers, the sheets surprisingly warm. Lotor's toes meet something that emits heat, perhaps a hot water bottle. "Oh, mmm," he lets out, shuffling around until he is comfortable, pillows fluffed behind his back, the cup of good, fat soup between his hands, a view of the flurry of snow that throws itself against the barrack.
"One would not think that you were brought up in a castle," Throk says quietly as he takes the other side of the bed. "You seem content."
He shuffles closer, and Lotor lets him, because this is what he wants too: a small amount of time where he doesn't have to play a part, a moment in time where the storm rages, but he is in the middle of it, in the eye. They have both played their roles for so long. Lotor is tired of it, of standing in the wild wind. He wants to be emperor. He is the emperor. For now. Most of all, he wants peace. He cuddles up to Throk, letting out an exhausted yawn. He takes a sip of the soup. It tastes well. Then again, he made sure that only the best rations are sent here. Throk will want for nothing. Except maybe company. Some day they will stand together, not opposites in battle, but together, Lotor on the throne, Throk behind it. One day.
They don't speak. Throk is always like that, quiet. Maybe that is what Lotor likes so much, the quiet. He puts the cup down and turns into Throk's embrace. The storm still rages outside when he falls asleep.